Nightside 02 - Agents of Light and Darkness

goats’ horns curling up from their foreheads and cloven hooves for feet. Their male and female attributes were sarcastically exaggerated. So were their fangs and claws. Long, twitching tails hung down between their bent legs. Suzie sniffed loudly, unimpressed, and glared at me.
    “You know I hate surprises. So this is why you had me carve a cross in each of my bullets and dip them in holy water.”
    “I believe in being prepared,” I said calmly. “Allow me to introduce the real Demon Lordz. A batch of very minor demons, on the run from Hell, living among us as humans for the pleasures it affords them.”
    “Coffee!” said the Demonz, their snarling voices overlapping. “Ice cream! Cold showers!”
    “And all the mortals we can torture,” said Mr. Bones. “We can’t keep them away. And they pay us to do it to them!”
    “Not that we do much of the tormenting ourselves, these days,” said Mr. Blood. “We find it better to delegate. All our dominatrixes are fully human. No-one understands how to inflict pain better than a trained professional human. You mortals are subtler than we could ever be…”
    “And besides, some of us had trouble with the concept of safe words,” said Mr. Bones, glaring about him.
    “If you’re all real demons,” said Suzie, “how did you escape from Hell?”
    The Demonz sniggered and elbowed each other in the ribs. Mr. Blood giggled. “Why, this is Hell, Faustus, nor are we out of it. Ah, the old jokes are still the best.”
    “Answer the lady,” I said.
    Mr. Bones shrugged. “Let’s just say we’re political refugees, and leave it at that. We’re hiding out from those who would seek to drag us back.”
    “If you’re trying to hide,” said Suzie, “why call your place The Pit? Isn’t that kinda drawing attention to yourselves?”
    “No-one ever said demons were smart,” I observed. “And they really are only very minor demons.”
    The Demon Lordz moved in a little closer, flexing their claws. The stench of brimstone was almost overpowering. I could feel my eyes smarting. I smiled kindly upon them, utterly casual.
    “What do you want here, Taylor?” said Mr. Bones.
    “The Unholy Grail has come to the Nightside,” I said.
    “We know. We don’t have it,” Mr. Blood said immediately.
    “Never thought for a moment that you did,” I said easily. “It’s way out of your league. But you know people. You have contacts. You hear things, from others of your kind. So if anyone knows who’s got the Unholy Grail, or is closest to getting it, it’s you.”
    Mr. Blood shook his horned head firmly. He sat on one corner of his desk, and it groaned loudly under his weight. “We don’t know, and we don’t want to know. We’ve put a lot of effort into finding our niche and not being returned. If the dark chalice, Iscariot’s Bane, really has come here, then you can bet good money that all the real movers and shakers will be out after it, like sharks tasting blood in the water.”
    “There are angels in the Nightside,” said Mr. Bones, grimacing as though he’d tasted something bitter. “Ranks and degrees far greater than us. They are death and destruction; the will of the Highest and the Lowest made manifest in the mortal world. Nothing material can hope to stand against them.”
    “So we are keeping our heads down and staying very quiet on the sidelines,” said Mr. Blood. “Until the Elect and the Damned have finished their business here and departed. We have no intention of being found out, and dragged back Below. Not when there are still so many subtle pleasures to be enjoyed here.”
    “Life is sweet,” said Mr. Bones. “In this tastiest of worlds.”
    “The Unholy Grail is a major prize,” I suggested. “You could use it to bargain for power and wealth and protection.”
    “You don’t use the Judas Cup,” said Mr. Blood. “It uses you. It is temptation and corruption, and the seduction of fools. It gives nothing that it does not take away, and damnation follows in its wake. Even such as we are frightened of the Unholy Grail.”
    The Demonz stirred uneasily, as though even the mention of the dark chalice was enough to call it.
    “However,” said Mr. Bones, “there is a prize that we could present to the movers and shakers of the Nightside that might well win us power and wealth and protection.”
    “Oh yes?” I said politely. “And what might that be?”
    “The heads of John Taylor and Suzie Shooter,” said Mr. Bones, smiling